The desert did not forgive weakness.
Sylas learned that with every step he took. The cold sand swallowed his feet, draining what little strength his malnourished body had left. Yet he kept moving, his pale blue eyes fixed on the only figures that mattered in this endless wasteland—the princess, the captain, and the two remaining knights.
This world was not kind.
And survival did not belong to those who hesitated.
Sylas quickened his pace and deliberately stepped into their path. One of the knights noticed instantly, sword half-drawn.
"Are you out of your mind?" the knight snarled. "You'll slow us down."
Sylas lowered his head, breathing heavily, his thin shoulders shaking. "If I stay alone, I'll die," he said quietly. "I won't be a burden."
The other knight laughed bitterly. "A beggar thinks he deserves protection?"
The captain studied Sylas in silence. His eyes lingered on the boy's frail body, the dirt-stained clothes, the exhaustion barely being held back by sheer will. Then his gaze shifted to the dark horizon behind them.
"We don't have time," the captain said finally. "He comes with us."
The knights scowled.
"If the monsters catch us," one said coldly, "he goes first."
Sylas heard it.
And he accepted it without hesitation.
A meat shield, he thought calmly. That's fine. As long as I live.
He fell into step behind them. The princess glanced back once, her expression strained but composed. She said nothing, but her fatigue was clear. Her breathing was uneven, her steps growing heavier with every passing minute.
They ran.
Across endless dunes. Over ridges that burned their lungs and shattered their legs. Time lost meaning as minutes stretched into hours.
Three hours passed.
Sylas's legs trembled violently. His vision blurred, and each breath felt like fire tearing through his chest. Still, he ran. Stopping meant death.
Then the princess stumbled.
The captain caught her instantly and lifted her into his arms. "Five minutes," he said grimly. "No more."
They collapsed behind a tall dune, using it as cover. Sylas dropped to his knees, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and shaking. His body begged him to collapse, to sleep, to surrender.
But his mind refused.
Something's wrong, he thought.
Sylas turned his head slowly and looked back.
Far in the distance, where darkness swallowed the horizon, a massive shadow was emerging once again. Its outline was enormous, distorted, unnatural. It moved neither fast nor slow—just enough to remind them of its presence.
A chill crawled down Sylas's spine.
The knights froze.
"It's still following us…" one whispered.
Sylas's eyes narrowed.
No, he realized. It's not chasing.
The monster had been close before. Too close.
Yet it had let them go.
Again.
A horrifying understanding settled in Sylas's mind.
It's playing with us.
Letting them run. Letting hope bloom. Then following again—patient, deliberate, cruel.
Like a predator enjoying the hunt.
The captain saw it too. His jaw clenched. "Move. Now."
He lifted the princess higher and broke into a run. The knights followed without question. Sylas forced himself to stand, his body screaming in agony.
Fear crushed exhaustion.
Ahead, piercing the pale moonlight, stood the silhouette of a ruined citadel. Its shattered towers clawed at the sky, black and hollow, ancient and forgotten.
"Ruins!" a knight shouted. "Ahead!"
Hope flared—thin, desperate, fragile.
They ran.
Behind them, the shadow surged forward, faster now, closing the distance with terrifying certainty—as if amused by their final burst of desperation.
The ruined citadel was their last hope.
And Sylas, teeth clenched, legs shaking, followed—knowing with chilling certainty that the monster was not hunting to kill quickly.
It was hunting to enjoy.